I Am A Book I Neither Wrote

Whence, If Ever, Shall Come The Actualityof A Voice Speaking The Mind's Knowing,the Sunlight Bright On The Green Windowshade,and The Self Articulate, Affectionate, And Flowing,ease, Warmth, Light, The Utter Showing,when In The White Bed All Things Are Made.

Even Paranoids Have Real Enemies.

I Admired My Father Very Much... At The Age Of Sixteen. But Now I See That He Was A Brutal And Cruel Man, - But Not Without Remorse, And That Was What Tortured Us, His Alternations.

And Hence The Poet Must Seek To Be Essentially Anonymous, He Must Die A Little Death Each Morning, He Must Swallow His Toad And Study His Vomit As Baudelaire Studied La Charogne Of Jeanne Duval.

How Could I Think The Brief Years Were Enough To Prove The Reality Of Endless Love?